


tell me what we’ve just started (how we watch tv and kiss sometimes)

by larrymurphycansteponme



Category: I Was Born for This - Alice Oseman, Radio Silence - Alice Oseman
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, alice enabled all of this on Sunday ok, plus some cheeky frowan ooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17887997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larrymurphycansteponme/pseuds/larrymurphycansteponme
Summary: Jimmy has never been good with his feelings. Neither has Lister.





	1. kiss me hard just like you did at the start (just like you’re breaking my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> OK THIS IS GONNA BE TWO PARTS LADS SO STICK AROUND BCS THERES A CLIFFHANGER YIKES
> 
> also this features frowan and references that bicci short story Alice wrote a lil bit. this has been something ive wanted to write for so long and tbh its not my best but i still rlly rlly like it 
> 
> thank u for reading lol, check me out on tumblr @larrymurphycansteponme

New Years Eve. No surprise that Jimmy can’t spend it alone in his apartment, watching horror films. No. It wouldn’t be the glamorous life of a pop star without flashy celebrity parties he secretly really dislikes. It was Lister’s idea, obviously, but Rowan didn’t even object because he wanted to invite this girl— Frances, Jimmy thinks is her name— that he clearly likes. And Jimmy didn’t want to ruin all of that over something as stupid as his fucking anxiety. It’s irrational. There is nothing wrong with partying. Just because it isn’t what he would opt to do doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it. Right?

 

People have been filing into the apartment for the past two hours now. The music is loud, and you have to yell in someone’s ear for your voice to be heard. Plastic cups are littering every flat surface, some drained of the last dregs, others still half full with various alcoholic drinks. The increasing amount of drunk people makes Jimmy uncomfortable, even though he’s drinking himself. A large part of his anxiety tonight is about the drinking; more specifically, if Lister will do something stupid and fuck up all the progress he’s made recently. It’s not like he’s being particularly sensible and staying sober for the night, though. Jimmy could actually _try_ and alleviate his crippling worry by doing that, but instead, he’s gonna try and get drunk himself and forget about it.

 

He and Rowan are standing in the kitchen, making conversation. Rowan keeps glancing to the door, though. Frances is supposed to be coming, but apparently she’s been held up and is going to be late. Jimmy doesn’t really care. He knows that once she arrives he should probably leave her and Rowan alone. He’s pretty sure they’re gonna become a thing, and that’s totally fine. After everything that happened with Bliss, Jimmy is just glad Rowan can move on. For a while, he thought he wouldn’t be able to.

 

“How many people did he even invite?” Rowan scoffs, looking away from the door, which has just swung open to a large group of new arrivals, scantily clad in sparkly and eccentric clothes. He looks disappointed. Waiting.

 

Jimmy shrugs. “Knowing that number really wouldn’t help me feel any more safe in this apartment.”

 

Lister Bird knows so many fucking people. Jimmy doesn’t understand how he has the time to talk to all of them individually, even if it is just as basic a conversation as ‘hey, want to come to my party?’ Most of them are probably only here to brag about it. Jimmy feels like a cynical asshole thinking that, but God, who actually cares about friendship in the materialistic music industry? He knows that Lister genuinely likes some of them (though ‘fancies’ might be a better choice of words) but most of the guests are just here to fill the space. Take up the gaping void in this apartment.

 

Jimmy wonders where Lister is now. He should probably find him soon, save himself from having to make awkward conversation with celebrities he doesn’t care to get to know. Frances will be here soon, anyway. And Jimmy is worried.

 

“When’s Frances getting here?”

 

“Hm?” Rowan manages to drag his eyes away from the door again. “Uh. Soon.”

 

That very unspecific and deeply unhelpful answer is _so_ uncharacteristic of Rowan that Jimmy is now 100% sure he likes her. If the fact she didn’t know who he was when they met— at a film premiere— wasn’t enough of a clue, that sure is.

 

He nods. “Right. Well. I’m gonna go find Lister.”

 

Rowan doesn’t give much of a response to that, so Jimmy just kind of skulks off on his own. He’s not even really tipsy at the moment, which is probably actually good. Only on his third drink.

 

It’s only when Jimmy has waged his way into the middle of the living room that he recalls how fucking much he hates crowds. Crowds of intoxicated people, swaying to the pulse of music. Jesus. He really, really isn’t a party person. Pushing through groups of people awkwardly and having to constantly mutter apologies as you do so is the very definition of a living hell to Jimmy. Still, he does it. He does it, and he gets out the other side having not been forced to start chatting with someone he doesn’t really know that well. He’s not too keen on just talking to random people at parties after their last one. And, fuck, that was in _August_.

 

There hasn’t been much time for parties since That Week. There was the short hiatus, and then it was straight back to the new contract and album four. Recently, their latest single dropped, and there has been so much press for that. Then, it was Christmas, and they hadn’t thrown or been to a single event on this scale. Jimmy had taken it for granted, which he now regrets. Parties suck. Parties are so unbelievably shit. He cannot understand how anyone can enjoy them properly.

 

He climbs the stairs, and turns down the main corridor to finally see Lister. He’s talking to a girl, which is unsurprising, but annoying. Jimmy doesn’t like having to talk to new people. That’s another reason he left Rowan to talk to Frances; he is bad around people he doesn’t know. But, fuck, there’s nothing he can do about it now. Lister is smiling in his direction, and as Jimmy walks over to get a proper look at the girl, he realises it’s a member of a pretty big girl band. _That_ member.

 

How could this be any more fucking awkward?

 

“Jim! You alright?” Lister is grinning obliviously. Always. Allister Bird is not the type of person to acknowledge feelings of apprehension.

 

“Yeah,” Jimmy shrugs, “just didn’t fancy watching Rowan flirt with that girl he likes for the rest of the night.”

 

“Who’s this girl?” That Member, whose name Jimmy can’t remember for the life of him, asks, smirking. She’s looking at Lister. It’s kind of gross. Or maybe Jimmy is too judgemental.

 

Lister doesn’t say anything for a moment, before simply saying, “YouTuber,” in an unsure voice. Rowan hasn’t told them much about Frances, to be honest.

 

That Member nods, before tilting her cup back and finishing her drink. She pauses, and purses her lips. “Cool. I’m gonna get another drink.” And then she walks away, which is frankly a massive relief to Jimmy. Trying to make conversation with someone who hooked up with your best friend is frankly a fear he doesn’t want to brave tonight.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so relieved.” Lister says this as if it’s strange to be relieved in this situation.

 

“That was singlehandedly the most awkward experience of my life.” After Jimmy says this, he immediately feels bad. Lister might be blushing, or it could just be the light. It’s not even his fault. Jimmy was the one to show up and force the conversation into existence. He could’ve just waited until That Member left. Lister was just... whatever. Talking to her. Maybe they were going to... whatever... again.

 

Whatever. Why does that thought bother Jimmy so much? Maybe he’s a little drunker than he thought.

 

Lister runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah... sorry.”

 

“No, it’s,” he pauses, “it’s fine, really.”

 

It doesn’t feel fine. But Jimmy chooses to ignore that.

 

“Do you wanna go somewhere, like, private? Without other people?” Lister asks this cautiously. Like he’s concerned. Maybe he is. At this point, Jimmy is quite fucking fed up with parties and party goers, and reasonably near a nervous breakdown. Lister, for all his obliviousness, can probably tell that. So Jimmy nods.

 

“Yeah.”

 

•

 

“Ro really likes that Frances girl, doesn’t he?” Shutting the door behind himself, Lister appears with two glasses and a bottle of red wine in hand. He just headed downstairs to retrieve them, before returning to Jimmy’s room.

 

“Is she here now?”

 

“Yeah,” Lister drags the word out, as he pours out the alcohol, “he was trying his fucking hardest to be all suave in front of her. Fucking hilarious.”

 

Jimmy laughs. “He should just ask her out already.”

 

“I know! That’s what I told him, and he just denied even liking her.” Lister scoffs and rolls his eyes melodramatically, before sitting down on the bed next to Jimmy. He hands him a glass of wine.

 

Jimmy can barely hear the music in here. It’s nice. A gentle hum is reminding him that, yeah, there are still strangers in his apartment, but for some reason he isn’t that stressed about it right now. He feels almost relaxed. Relaxed, at a party. A small part of him is still angry, though. He doesn’t know why he’s angry, but he is. It’s this gross, envious kind of feeling that he hates. Jimmy doesn’t want to be like that. It makes him feel like total shit. He doesn’t even know why That Member bothered him so much with her general presence.

 

“So, do you like that girl? Still? Or, now, or whatever?” He asks, and immediately regrets it.

 

Lister laughs, rolling over onto his front. “No. I mean, she’s attractive, but I’ve never liked her like that.” He smiles, and looks up at Jimmy. It makes him feel weird. The expression on his face is reminiscent of that one fucking picture from his Calvin Klein shoot that Jimmy Does Not Think About Anymore. God. Fuck. He feels hot. Uncomfortable.

 

Jimmy clears his throat, and drags his eyes away, instead looking at the TV. “Right,” he says, “anyway. Wanna watch a horror film?”

 

“Sure. As long as it’s actually scary and not total garbage.”

 

So, they spend the next ten minutes on IMDb, making sure that the don’t end up watching something shit. Eventually, they settle on ‘Hereditary’ which neither of them had yet had a chance to watch. Honestly, Jimmy wishes he’d chosen a different time to watch a film he had a genuine interest in, because he can’t really focus on the picture on screen as it starts to play. He finds himself refilling his wine glass. Maybe if he gets a little drunker he’ll just forget about his intrusive thoughts.

 

The room is dark. They switched the lights off to watch the movie, and Jimmy can only see Lister faintly, illuminated by the screen’s soft light. He is thinking about anything and everything but what’s going on in the film. Is it scary? He doesn’t know. Jimmy is too busy being fucking terrified by this feeling in his stomach. Envious and awkward and unsure. Ugly.

 

They’re maybe two thirds of the way through the film when it starts to get really tense. Lister keeps jumping every now and then, and occasionally the blaring music catches Jimmy off guard. But what really makes him panic is when Lister finds his hand in the dark and squeezes it.

 

What the fuck?

 

He doesn’t know if Lister is, like, that scared he needs reassurance, or if he thinks Jimmy is scared and is trying to reassure him, or if— _fuck_. Intrusive thoughts. Literally who the fuck allowed this? Oh God. Is this gay panic? It feels like gay panic. Jimmy might just be really pissed now. He’s on his second glass of wine, and he had three drinks before that.

 

He’s looking at Lister, almost expecting something from him. Like, an explanation for Why The Fuck They’re Holding Hands. But Lister isn’t looking at him. His eyes are solely focused on the screen, watching the action unfold. His hair is a complete mess, mousey curls falling over his face, and there’s a faint remnant of a smile on his face. He looks really... pretty. That’s nothing new, though. Lister is just attractive. Most people can deduce that. It doesn’t mean anything.

 

But. He’s looking at his mouth now. Just staring. And Jimmy knows he is so fucking drunk and this is so fucking stupid, but it doesn’t really stop him. He is looking at Lister, but he isn’t seeing him the way he used to. He hasn’t been for a while. Ever since that one fucking photo shoot, Jimmy hasn’t been able to see him as anything else. And when he is this unbothered, so drunk he isn’t even really worrying about anything, that denial is breaking down. Maybe.

 

So he just leans in and kisses him.

 

And for a moment, Lister kisses him back, before suddenly pulling away— _barely_ — and asking, “What are you doing?”

 

“I...” fuck, it just comes slurring out like drool onto a pillow, “I like you.”

 

“You’re drunk.” Lister sounds dismissive, but fuck, it makes Jimmy want to laugh. Because that’s what he thought when this happened the last time. _You’re_ _drunk_. _You_ _just_ _want_ _to_ _get_ _off_ _with_ _someone_. But Lister likes Jimmy. Right?

 

“But I thought _you_ liked _me_?”

 

“Jimmy...” Lister just stares up at him for a second, at a loss for words. And then, he gets off of his front, up on his knees, and pulls him into another kiss.

 

How the fuck can they both be this dysfunctional? Like. This is not normal. Jimmy is perfectly aware that his understanding of ‘normal’ is lacking, regarding what the every day person experiences, but fuck. Maybe if they were normal people with normal lives they’d just, like, ask each other out, get coffee, or maybe even dinner. Who knows? Literally, who knows, because that is something that can never happen. Because if it did, the internet would explode into a media shit storm.

 

This can’t work... can it?

 

Jimmy might be thinking all of this right now, but it doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t do anything about it. He kisses Lister and— well, they’re making out. It’s different to when he’s done this before with random guys, though. Jimmy thinks he knows why, but he doesn’t want to think about it. You’re not supposed to think about what you can’t have, right?

 

Lister’s lips are trailing down his neck now, and Jimmy is pulling at his shirt. It feels hungry, and _cheap_. The movie is blaring in the background. This isn’t romantic. But maybe it’s all Jimmy will ever get.

 

No matter how Jimmy tries, nothing will play out how he wishes. From New Years plans to his fucking love life.


	2. i don’t wanna be just your friend (but i know that this is gonna end)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lister doesn’t necessarily need alcohol to make bad decisions. But, fuck, if there’s ever a reason to go cold turkey, it’s this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG TO FOR ME TO GET THIS UP FATE HAS BEEN REALLY AGAINST ME SKDKKDFK
> 
> anyway i love my dumb boys

Lister wakes up at exactly 10:23 AM. He knows this because, unlike in his own room, Jimmy is a sensible person with a clock on his bedside table. He has to push an empty wine glass to the side to see the display, and once he’s read it, he suddenly realises that he is, in fact, only in his boxers in Jimmy’s bed. What happened last night? It’s not like Lister was that drunk. He probably had about three drinks. Maybe four. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. He wants to lie very still underneath and blanket and drink water. Can’t be asked to think about anything else, even though, as he ponders for a little longer, it’s starting to come back to him.

 

Last night.

 

Light is seeping through a gap in the curtains, a shaft of warm, yellowish light dispersed across the far wall. It feels warm, bright, for January the fucking first. Lister hates January. He doesn’t know anyone who likes January. It’s the worst month of the entire year, and hasn’t Lister kicked it off in just the shittiest way imaginable. Drunkenly kiss your best mate and quite possibly ruin your relationship forever. He really, _really_ regrets that.

 

And then, the squeaky, jarring turn of a door handle makes him wince. His hangover isn’t that bad— Lister has had a lot worse— but he’s still got a shitty headache. The door creaks open, and Jimmy appears, shirtless, with a mug of what is presumably tea in one hand. Oh Jesus. Is this awkward conversation really going to have to happen this early?

 

Usually, Lister doesn’t feel awkward about this kind of thing. Usually, his feelings aren’t involved, though.

 

“Are you awake?”

 

“Mm.”

 

Silence. Lister focuses on the ceiling, smooth and white. His eyes drift to the skirting board and the paint strokes over plaster, and anything but Jimmy. He’s sat down now, on the other side of the bed. Sipping his fucking tea nonchalantly. Lister genuinely didn’t expect him to be like this. For fuck’s sake, it’s Jimmy. He’s anxious and irritable and isn’t— doesn’t— he’d act like he cared a little more, right?

 

Maybe he doesn’t care, though? No. Lister can’t imagine that. Jimmy, doing that, and not caring.

 

Yeah. No. He wouldn’t.

 

Right?

 

This isn’t even that big a deal. Probably. It’s not even Doing That. That. They have both done this before. Lister is just being stupid because he thinks he’s more important than anyone else Jimmy has been with before. Because he’s selfish and conceited.

 

“Are you okay?” Jimmy’s voice is soft. It makes Lister completely crumple.

 

“No.”

 

He hesitates for a second, before a frown twists across his face, and he says, “I’m sorry,” like he’s accidentally triggered the end of the fucking world.

 

Lister laughs. He laughs. Jesus, why does he laugh? It’s not funny. No, Lister is outraged, but he’s a total mess and 100% incapable of expressing his emotions in logical ways. He sits up, leaning back on his elbows, looking right at Jimmy finally. “Why are _you_ sorry?” He asks.

 

“Because I shouldn’t have...” Jimmy hesitates. He’s not looking at Lister. He is staring out of the window, his hands tightening around his mug. His brows are firmly pinched together as he continues, “I shouldn’t have done that. Last night.”

 

“Yeah, well I could have stopped you. I wasn’t even that drunk.”

 

“No offence, but when the _fuck_ have you ever done the sensible thing in a situation?” Jimmy says, suddenly with a lot more bite in his tone. His eyes are more focused now. He has nice eyes. Lister knows it’s very cliché to waffle about someone’s eyes, but fuck, Jimmy has nice eyes.

 

Then Lister decides to blurt out, “do you actually like me, or were you just really drunk last night?” Which he regrets. A lot.

 

“I don’t know,” Jimmy groans, “and I know that’s not what you want to hear but I genuinely have no fucking idea. And I didn’t want to ever bring it up because it’s so awkward, and I don’t know what to say. Like, I’ve been in a state of gay panic for the past two months—”

 

Lister doesn’t mean to laugh. But he does.

 

“This isn’t funny.” Jimmy says far too solemnly for a boy who just stated he has been in ‘gay panic’ for two months straight.

 

“It’s kinda funny.”

 

Jimmy gives him a genuine look of disdain. Endearing disdain. How is that possible? What? Is Lister actually this dumb? Like, yeah, he knows he is thick. So unbelievably thick that he has, most notably, eaten an entire jar of mustard, kick flipped into a river, failed most of his exams and been accidentally stabbed by himself. He knew all of that stuff made him stupid already, but God, he cannot understand Jimmy. It annoys him. He wants to, he wants to do badly. How is he supposed to make him feel okay?

 

“Whatever,” he sighs, takes a sip of his tea, and there is silence once more. It’s almost nice. Like, in some completely alternate universe, this morning, they’re here together, and it’s comfortable and warm and welcomed. It’s a thing, somewhere else. Out there, in a series of slightly different worlds, there is a Jimmy And Lister.

 

But that isn’t here. That cannot be here, because right now everything is far too messy and even if it ever calmed down, it still wouldn’t work. It just— it can’t, right? Like, there’s too much really going on. Look how Bliss and Rowan’s relationship fell to fucking pieces. It’d never work out.

 

(But that’s not really what he thinks. Lister is telling himself this because he is scared. Lister is so fucking terrified of romance because he has utterly no concept of it. He thinks about it all the time, but he can’t. He’s frozen. Petrified. Completely pathetic and hopeless, all in the name of love. It’s so much harder than just flirting with someone you don’t even like, and he hates it.)

 

“I mean,” he starts, slowly, “it doesn’t really matter, anyway.”

 

Jimmy frowns. “What do you mean?”

 

“It’s not like it would work.” And he laughs. But it’s forced and it sounds fake, which figures, because it is. Then, very suddenly, this wave of Oh Fuck I Need To Cry crashes over him, and Lister has to blink a lot.

 

And then he gets up, and leaves the room like a total knobhead.

 

•

 

“You alright?”

 

“No,” Lister says, before quickly adding, “because you just scared the shit out of me, Ro.”

 

Rowan Omondi looks surprisingly dishevelled; his hair is falling over his eyes and his glasses are askew; his shirt is baggy and hangs off one shoulder slightly; his feet are bare and Rowan is one of those people who hates not wearing socks. He’s holding two mugs by their handles in one hand, and his face is tired. Tired, but concerned. Always concerned.

 

He nods slightly. “Right.”

 

They’re both standing in the vacant kitchen, Lister refilling a glass with water from a pitcher, Rowan reaching to stack the dishwasher. It’s mundane and domestic. Rowan shuffles past him to retrieve the dishwasher tablets, seemingly hesitant. And then he asks it. The thing Lister didn’t want to be asked.

 

“Where’d you guys go last night?”

 

“Oh,” he laughs, “just, uh, we wanted to give you space. You know... with Frances.” Hopefully he can put that sort of spin on it.

 

Rowan looks at him, dead in the eye. “Mm. Sure.”

 

“What?” Lister grins widely at him, but it’s uneven and forced.

 

Sighing, Rowan rubs his temples and pauses for a moment. “I’m not stupid, Allister.”

 

“Hm.”

 

And then Lister doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t really know what he would say. It feels heavy and uncomfortable, this pressure of telling people. Honest is so hard sometimes, and when Lister has a splitting headache, he frankly doesn’t want to deal with it. He would rather retreat to the safety of a dark room and lie down for a long time.

 

“You should talk to him.” Rowan says, gently.

 

“Since when were you a relationship expert?”

 

Rowan’s soft expression flickers for a moment, before he just rolls his eyes and shrugs the remark off. “I’ve been in one relationship, okay, I didn’t fucking know what I was doing. I still don’t, really, but I know that if you want to be in a relationship, you can’t just sit around waiting for it to all fall into place.”

 

“In that case,” Lister is desperate to make this a little more lighthearted, “you should’ve asked Frances out last night. Practice what you preach, huh, Ro?”

 

Because there’s no way. No way Rowan will have actually made a move.

 

“Yeah, I did. She’s still here.”

 

“Fuck.” Lister doesn’t really know what to say. Like. Wow. He’d been joking about it for so long, winding Rowan up about this crush he has on that girl and now he’s actually gone and done it. Which is impressive, actually.

 

Rowan runs a hand through his hair. “Yep. So. That’s a thing now, that is a thing.” He seems weirdly nervous about it, too. Lister, for however unobservant he is, has always noticed how Rowan is different around people he likes. Like, really likes. He seems less... like a grumpy old man. To be fucking honest, it’s not very profound.

 

“I wish you every happiness.” He says, but it doesn’t sound quite right.

 

•

 

Lister is trailing up the stairs to his room, with a very large glass, that is verging on being a vase, of water in his hand. He is going to spend the day off, in bed, overthinking everything. Rowan makes everything seem so easy. Rowan is smart. Rowan is smart and thinks things through logically and asses social situations properly and isn’t a total fucking moron. Lister is. He’s still doubting Jimmy even likes him back because, God, were they drunk. So very drunk.

His hand is on the door handle when he stops, and approximately 99.9% of his brain fails to function.

 

“Hey.”

 

There’s a very long and awkward pause as Lister reluctantly turns around to face Jimmy. All he wanted to do was go procrastinate about doing this, not actually fucking do it. Suddenly, everything positive and motivational he’d been starting to feel is fleeing from his mind and he feels extremely redundant in the situation. There’s something uncanny about Jimmy’s expression; something that screams ‘I Am Going To Gently Let You Down For The Second Time In Six Months.’ Jesus, why did Lister have to over complicate everything and hype himself up so much about Jimmy maybe liking him back that he believed a drunken confession?

 

What an absolute idiot.

 

“I know you’re probably still really pissed off at me—”

 

“I’m not.” Lister says, before he can finish, because he really isn’t. If Lister is angry with anyone it’s himself.

 

Jimmy sighs. “I just— I don’t know how to say this...”

 

It’s awful. God, it is so awful. You might as well rip your teeth out one by one with rusty pliers. Lister hates confrontation. He can’t bear people just not... not liking him. Reacting negatively. Saying something that isn’t upbeat and in agreement to his face. He would rather someone punched him in the face than have to stand here and listen to a long list of reasons Why Jimmy Doesn’t Like Lister. Because that’ll just make him really fucking miserable.

 

“Do you want to go... out, sometime?”

 

What?

 

This feels really anticlimactic and irrelevant and it’s not what he was expecting at all. Like, what? Between everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours, Lister cannot even begin to fathom why Jimmy would ask that question at this time. It genuinely makes no sense to him. Sure, he’s stupid, but he’s not that stupid.

 

“... Yeah?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but it does.

 

And Jimmy seems weirdly relieved by the response. Like it was a Super Important Question. “I mean, I know you said that it wouldn’t work but I don’t really see the harm in trying, because it— I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it for ages—”

 

“Wait. What?” Actually what the fuck is going on? Why is Jimmy being weird? What’s he even talking about? Is Lister really just that hungover?

 

“What?”

 

“I am so fucking confused. What did you want to talk about?”

 

“About... going out?” Jimmy pauses, before realising Lister is still confused, and addding, “because I like you back.”

 

His jaw fucking drops. “You _what_?”

 

Jimmy laughs nervously. “You... didn’t realise that?”

 

“Um, no?” Lister says, because Jesus Christ he wouldn’t— he couldn’t— what? There’s no way Jimmy is telling the truth about this. “Are you serious?” He asks, doubting it, doubting it very much.

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

Lister can think of a lot of reasons, really. He feels bad, or, he’s convincing himself he does because of what happened, or he just wants to get off with someone, or— well, honestly, who would like Lister? Everyone likes Lister Bird, the band boy put in every tween magazine against his will, but no one likes Lister. The authentic and genuine version of himself. It’s too messy and chaotic for anyone, and he’s kind of just accepted that he’ll never get anything more than casual sex.

 

But Jimmy is looking at him like— well, it’s different. Not hooded and dark and hungry, not placid and indifferent and unmoving, not wide and focused and star struck. He can’t explain it. Tender? Soft? It doesn’t sound right. It might just be Lister, Lister being stupid, Lister letting his stomach twist in knots and his brain kick out every rational thought in there; but this feels real.

 

“You really mean it, then?”

 

He takes a small step closer, away from the door. Their faces are closer together now. Jimmy smells really good. His hair looks soft.

 

 

“Yeah.” He breathes. Lister is about to say something more, when Jimmy pulls him in for a kiss. It’s not very romantic, though, because Lister somehow manages to spill like half his vase of water onto the hardwood floor and it causes both of them to step back from the puddle pooling out over it.

 

Jimmy’s eyes dart from Lister, to the floor, to back to Lister. “Fuck. Sorry.” He says, like it’s his fault Lister is clumsy as all hell. And then they just stare at each other for a moment. Contentedly. Lister’s chest feels weird.

 

He sets the vase-glass down on the convenient side table. Then, he steps cautiously around the spillage, before cupping Jimmy’s cheek— his skin is soft, warm— and kissing him gently. And Jimmy kisses him back, which, when they’re not obscenely drunk and it actually _means_ something, is the most surreal feeling.

 

He doesn’t want this to end.


End file.
